


Midnight Tea

by RandomCat23



Category: The Walking Dead & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Family Bonding, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:34:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26842216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RandomCat23/pseuds/RandomCat23
Summary: During her first winter in Alexandria, Lydia struggles to fit in, heal, and find her place. Thankfully, she doesn't have to figure it out it alone.
Comments: 5
Kudos: 9





	1. One

Tonight is everything she needs it to be. It's a little warmer. The midwinter festival has left every inch of the snowy ground trampled; another set of tracks won't be noticed. Aaron is on guard duty for the second shift. Lydia picked him not because he was less diligent, but because if he caught her he wouldn't be nearly as mean as the others.

She hoped.

She skips the last stair entirely, landing perfectly in her worn boots. Lydia grins at her feat but a faint noise pauses her celebration. That's when she notices it: the glow from the kitchen, too warm to be from the moon. It's accompanied by soft, repetitious scratches. Lydia peeks her head around the corner just enough to confirm her suspicions.

Daryl's at the table sharpening a knife by candle light. She flattens herself against the wall and curses. The front door is right in his line of sight. It's below her room which was why she had picked it as her egress in the first place. She'd weighed other options like her bedroom window, but she knew that it groaned when she tried to open it. She had rejected the hall window because it had no porch roof below it; besides, that would require passing Carol's room and Lydia knew the woman slept even less than Daryl.

A little bit of disappointment knots in her stomach. It isn't as if she wants to run away; when she is left to her own devices it was nice knowing she was sheltered from the elements and need not fear the slap of a switch. It's just, she's put in her time. She read three books this week and successfully folded clothing. When Gauge said something snotty, she didn't snarl at him or draw her knife and drag it across his throat. She'd done what they wanted her to do so now she is going to do what _she_ wants.

She is good at sneaking, but not good enough to make it past her insomniac guardian. If she moved toward the door, Daryl would hear her, see her, gruffly demand to know where she was going, what she was doing out of bed.

 _"He might let me go,"_ the hopeful part of her whispers. 

Lydia sighs, considers, and then abandons that thought. He may, but if he didn't, the forthcoming scold and extra surveillance would be almost as bad as just going back to bed. Briefly, she weighs the risks of sneaking out through Judith's bedroom. That too gets cast aside; the kid was too quick to draw her gun.

But then comes the light shuffle of the chair against the floor and the steady footsteps retreating into the basement.

Lydia releases a sigh at her stroke of luck. 

She sneaks out the front door.

Winter welcomes her with a full bodied embrace. Lydia sucks in the cold, quiet air that bites at her cheeks. Clinging to the shadows, Lydia slinks down the street before ducking behind an empty house and up to the wall. She grunts as her fingers slip on the freezing metal and her legs have to catch her entire weight. Ever adaptable, Lydia finds a new path over the fence, sliding over the metal like a snake and drops to the other side.

Easy.

Henry had said she could belong here, and she wanted to believe him. But when she can sneak out like a thief and it feels more natural than eating with a fork or smiling politely, she's not so sure she can believe that anymore.

Grief vices her chest suddenly and without mercy. Tears soak her cheeks as she streaks through the woods, eyeing the thick oak tree that towers above the rest. Lydia clambers up the trunk. In her haste she scrapes her palms. Ten feet in the air, with her back to the trunk, Lydia lets out a sob. She squeezes her knees to her chest, as if by doing so she could keep it all inside.

Her cry is answered by a wolf's howl. She shudders with the haunting echo.

It starts to snow.

 _"Weak,"_ her mother chastises _. "Crying over some boy?"_

"Shut up!" She screeches and then clamps her bloody palm over her mouth.

The wolves pass beneath her. There's five of them, all with varying shades of sleek gray fur. The leader looks up at her with yellow, honest eyes and sniffs. Uninterested, or determining her to close enough to kin, trots away. 

She watches the pack move as one and another ping of sadness rattles through her heart.

_"You belong out here. You belong to me."_

Lydia scoffs; it was true she didn't believe Henry's promise, but she doesn't believe her mother either.

There is nowhere for her.

The trees are nothing more than dark shadows surrounded by inky black. The wind picks up and rattles the bare branches reaching unseen to the cloudy sky. It's inviting because it's harsh and frightening and familiar. She's spent more of her life curled up in dry creek beds than on an actual mattress.

But she loves her pillow, the carpet between her toes.

She likes the mint tea and tomato sauce.

Even Daryl, who, despite keeping his sharp eye on her, seemed to silently understand her claustrophobia; he sometimes invited her to help collect firewood and to check the snares.

_"Weak!"_

The wind changes direction and the snow falls harder.

Lydia curls around her knees. She closes her eyes and tips her head upward just enough to let the snowflakes that make it through the branches hit her skin. Usually by now she would be south with the horde, safe from the worst offerings of winter. She stares down her red nose to her numb fingers and knows at least here, there is shelter from the elements that doesn't come prepackaged with violence.

When her tears stop, Lydia wipes her nose on her sleeve and climbs down. The wolf tracks lead into the dark, but she turns and breathes into her cupped hands. Is it the cowards choice to choose physical comforts over her Mother? Without Henry to hold her hand, what was in Alexandria anyway?

Before she can settle on an answer, she's over the wall without so much as a hitch. Aaron doesn't catch her. At least she knows she can be invisible here. That's a small comfort and she smiles. It slips slightly when she reaches the house she's supposed to be sleeping in. All the windows are black. The snow makes the white paint look gray. Not for the first time, she tries to recall what her childhood home looked like. She knows she must have had one, probably with a grassy yard. But there's nothing before Alpha and the Guardians. Shaking off the ensuing headache, she pads up the stairs and eases her way inside.

She's about to go upstairs, but there's still a glow in the kitchen. The candle has dripped wax all over its plate, its low flame struggling to stay lit. Curious, she pads closer. There's a carafe, a mug, and a tea bag on the table. A cursory touch reveals the water is still steaming hot. She shoots a glare at the basement door, but it softens just as quickly.

Lydia pours herself a mug for tea. In between sips, she listens for the howl of the wolves or her Mother's sneer.

But the house keeps quiet.


	2. Chapter 2

A week later she tries again. Maybe she got a little full of herself, silently dancing down the stairs, already thinking of rushing through the creek and longing for the screech of an owl at her back. Conveniently, she ignored the fact that Daryl had known she snuck outside, the tea and mug a little reminder that he was watching.

But he hadn't said anything all week.

Sitting on the last step, Lydia slips her shoes on, her eyes wide in the dark. Her hand is on the doorknob when the kitchen light flicks on.

"You should be sleeping," Daryl says without any heat. It's barely above a whisper, but his voice carries in the dead silence.

Caught, Lydia pinches her shoulders and releases the knob. "So should you," she returns, just as softly. 

"Can't argue with ya here." His chuckle draws her into the kitchen like a moth to flame. 

Daryl's at the table with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. Lydia copies his stance and waits for the reprimand. But, instead of shooing her back upstairs, he slides a steaming mug across the table.

He's always surprisingly kind despite his gruffness and she's had a hard time reconciling that. She's only known strength as violence and kindness as weakness.

 _It's a trap_ , she thinks, even as she pulls back a chair. The drink will keep her at the table, probably fill her with that sleepy herb and by the time Daryl says goodnight, her eyelids will drop and with them, her chance to be in the night. Is she giving in when she accepts the offer and sits? Has she lost her taste for conflict, the urge to fight that her mother meticulously impressed on her? 

Lydia ponders this as she takes a sip.

"Ya gonna tell me why yer sneakin' out in the middle of the night?"

"No," she says. 

"No?" He presses gently.

Lydia shrugs and repeats an excuse she'd heard other kids say, "It's just something to do."

"Is that right?"

In between sips, Lydia hums her response and that's the end of it. 

So much for a reprimand.

The heat from the mug permeates her scabs from the other night. She thinks back to then, when she had been so sure she had escaped unnoticed, only to be welcomed back by tea and a mug. Now, under the curtain of her hair, she eyes the man she once mistook for Henry's father. Circumstance had thrust her into his care. There had been plenty of chances for him to leave her, pass her onto someone else, or turn a blind eye while she disappears, but here he is, at the kitchen table with his own mug.

She doesn't know why she suddenly wants to pick a fight but she does. "I hate this place," she says with conviction she doesn't actually feel.

Daryl runs his hands over the table and sighs. "I hated it too, at first."

Her eyes narrow; apparently she can't goad Daryl into chiding her for being childish, for not being thankful for everything here. Lydia doesn't have to ask why they share this hate. Even if Henry hadn't told her, she'd seen the way he lived in the woods before. At the same time, she's seen the way he was welcomed back, how people looked to him with loyalty and trust. She couldn't reconcile it; her whole life she had been told you couldn't be both. If you lived behind walls, you lived a lie and you were weak. 

He wasn't weak. Far from it. And he wasn't a liar. If he could fit in here, maybe she could too.

Maybe.

"What changed?" Hope laced her voice, a delicate wish woven into two words. 

Daryl frowns, takes a long drink. By the time he taps the mug on the table, he had an answer. "I had a friend. Well, he wasn't a friend then...Aaron. He and his husband Eric took me under their wing."

Lydia mouths the lip of the mug so that the corner of her mouth doesn't give away her disappointment. Henry's absence stings again, a broken promise, a stolen future. She represses a shudder. Friends, huh? She can't name any and if that's what it takes to belong she might as well jump the fence and disappear into the woods. 

Lydia stares into the murky bottom of her mug as she whispers, "What would have happened if they hadn't?"

Daryl huffs, half smiles, and then shrugs. "Dunno. Probably would have just kept butchering opossums on the front porch till..." 

"Opossums?" Lydia wrinkles her nose.

"What? You prefer squirrel?" 

He's teasing her. And the only reason she doesn't bristle is because she suspects Daryl doesn't mind squirrel or opossum.

She blows the steam from her drink and with it goes her hope for a convincing solution to her problem. Resigned, she meets his gaze and says, "No. Hog is good though."

Daryl nods his agreement and stands to refill his mug. The wind rattles the window pane and they both glance at the offending window in sync. The cold fails to permeate the house's walls. Lydia turns back to her drink.

It's been a long time since she's experienced winter. She likes it because the cold keeps her inside and away from people and their judgmental stares. Come spring, she won't be able to hide away in the house sorting clothing. There will be vegetables to pick, supply runs to make. Lydia sends out a silent wish for a long, cold winter. Another day locked inside is another day before she has to try and fit in here.

Because, she can live outside, she's done it for most of her life, but as she sits across the table from Daryl and cradles her tea, the ache to belong settles in her bones. Her grin is bittersweet with the memory of Henry and his certainty that she could have a place here.

_But, without him, how?_

When Daryl comes back to the table, he asks, "Have you met Carly yet?"

She shakes her head.

"Nah. I guess not. She's a little older than you and usually works on house repairs."

Lydia's a little sleepy now, warm, and the adrenaline from before has seeped out of her blood like the tea from the bag. Because Daryl isn't one for idle chatter, she forces herself to focus, half wondering how this Carly person relates to hogs and opossums.

"Could introduce ya, if ya want." When she doesn't respond right away he adds, "I'm sure hanging out with the kids and me ain't all that great."

Her mouth drops open as she pieces together his proposal: a potential friend and with it, a possible way in.

"Sure," she whispers, gaze suddenly wide again.

"Tomorrow then," he says as a way of departure, taking his newly filled mug to the basement.

The door clicks shut behind him and she's alone again. Lydia clasps the mug and slurps up the last of her drink. Hope returned, her heart patters against her ribcage in the silence. _Tomorrow._ When she stands, she notes the glowing light under the basement door, hears someone stir upstairs, and corrects herself.

Not alone.

Encompassed.

She puts her mug in the sink, because she is learning the ways of house living. She doesn't linger by the front door, even though the wind whistles at her through the cracks. She pads upstairs as quietly as she had descended and slips under her comforter, eager, for once, for morning to come.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Constructive criticism is always welcome! -randomcat23


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